


alive, for a little while

by lamprophony



Series: it hurts until it doesn't [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape Recovery, Soulless Sam Winchester, just a lot of talking lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:53:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22392085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamprophony/pseuds/lamprophony
Summary: Set Season 6, during/after Soulless Sam.Dean finally figures it out. Sam remembers, just a little.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: it hurts until it doesn't [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571341
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	alive, for a little while

**Author's Note:**

> Last fic for this series! Totally pg, I was trying to work some smut in there but they just didn't feel like it.

“You knew,” Dean says. “You did it on purpose. All of it.”

Sam looks at Dean, slanted eyes cool and assessing. He doesn’t ask what Dean’s talking about, this time. “You’re just so desperate, Dean,” he says. “You’re weak. It was so _easy._ ”

“You played me,” Dean spits. “You fucking drugged me, you fucking bastard. Jesus Christ.” Dean turns away, rubs his thumb over his mouth nervously. He’s ashamed to feel wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. _Weak._ Stupid, too. How could he not have noticed? 

“I’m still Sam,” the stranger in Sam’s body says. “I’m still your brother.” 

“You’re not Sam. Sam would never do any of the shit you did,” Dean snarls. Anger is a warm fire in his chest, and it’s comforting, familiar. It doesn’t leave any room for the coldness of despair, and he feels steadier for it. 

“Are you sure, Dean?” Sam asks. He’s smiling a little, almost concerned, eyebrows slanted and eyes wide with honest curiosity. “Because you know, it took you a while to realize the difference. Shit, you didn’t even realize – Cas had to tell you.”

“Stop that,” Dean snaps. “Stop pretending you feel anything. You’re a fucking shell.” 

Sam sighs and in an instant his expression changes, turns flat and bored. Dean knows it’s not Sam, finally really truly knows, but the abrupt disinterest that washes over Sam’s face still shatters something inside his chest. Sam nods. “Alright, if that’s what you want.” 

“Why?” Dean asks. He doesn’t understand. If Sam doesn’t care about him, doesn’t care about anything, why not be honest? Why even fucking bother screwing with Dean? 

Sam shrugs. “Why not?”

Dean looks at Sam mutely. His protective coat of rage is slowly slipping away, all emotion draining out of him to leave dull exhaustion in its wake. He doesn’t know how to handle this version of Sam, a Sam who knows him inside and out but doesn’t give a shit. 

“I do need you.” Sam sounds earnest. “It’s good to have you around. We make a good team, Dean. But I have needs too, you know.”

“So just – that’s how you get your fucking rocks off now?” 

Sam shrugs again. “If I remember correctly, it wasn’t just _me_ getting off.” Dean opens his mouth to respond but nothing comes out, so Sam continues. “But not just that. You’re stubborn, willful. I needed you to see things my way, so I was just… giving you a little push in the right direction, that’s all.”

“And hey, to give you some credit, you were suspicious. Sometimes. But all I had to do was throw out an apology, be a little nicer to you next time – and you came running right back.” 

“Shut up,” Dean says. He turns, walks to the door of the panic room. Stops.

“Were you even mad about the girl?” Dean knows it’s a stupid question, Sam doesn’t _care_ , so he doesn’t look back, doesn’t want to see Sam’s face ( _not Sam’s, it’s not really_ Sam). 

“Of course not, Dean,” Sam says. “Who cares about some dead kid? You were just getting too bossy. It’s really annoying, you know. I had to reel you in somehow.” 

Dean wonders if Sam had been hoping to get her killed, or if her death had been just a useful opportunity to mold Dean to his liking. He doesn’t ask, just continues walking out the door. He doesn’t want to know.

\---

Dean doesn’t want to leave Sam alone with Bobby. 

Dean finally knows what Sam’s capable of. He knows more than anyone, more than Cas or Bobby or even that fuckhead Samuel. Sam’s dangerous, could and would hurt Bobby if it suited him. But he can’t afford to leave Sam alone, not with Death’s deal hanging in the balance, and it’s not like he can kick Bobby out of his own house, anyway. 

So he goes, leaves Bobby with nothing more than a warning to keep an eye out. Walking out the door he’s barely able to breathe through the unease that clenches over his windpipe like an invisible hand. In truth, Dean’s not worried about Sam hurting Bobby. Not really. Bobby’s been around a long time and the man can take care of himself. 

But. All it would take would be one word, one sentence from Sam and Bobby would _know_. Bobby would look at Dean and know exactly what he was doing with his little brother, and the shame would eat him alive. And Sam, goddamn him, knows exactly what effect that would have on Dean. 

When Dean comes back just in time to stop Sam from gutting Bobby open like a fish, all he feels is relief. God, he can barely stand himself, can’t stand the sickly sense of _gratitude _that Sam went for violence instead of revealing the truth.__

__\---_ _

__after._ _

__The keys jingle in the lock as Dean shoves the door open with his shoulder, balancing two coffees in his left hand. “Dude, free breakfast in the lobby,” Dean says, grinning, before stopping short at the sight of Sam. He drops his coffees on the table and takes a few steps forward before stopping uncertainly._ _

__Sam’s sitting on the edge of the motel bed, duffel open on the floor, white knuckles wrapped around an orange pill bottle. “I drugged you,” Sam says. He sounds scratchy and rough, a strange hollow quality to his voice._ _

__“It wasn’t you,” Dean says immediately. It’s true. Sam-without-a-Soul was fundamentally different from the Sam sitting in front of him now. Looking back, he can’t believe it took him so long to notice the difference._ _

__“I _drugged you_.” His face is screwed up, quickly turning red and blotchy as tears fall from his eyes. He’s always been a loud, ugly crier. _ _

__“Yeah,” Dean says. He’d known at the time, on a gut-deep level, but he just hadn’t been able to believe Sam would do something like that to him. And he’d been right, hadn’t he? “It’s okay, Sam. It wasn’t your fault.”_ _

__“And then, afterwards.” Sam’s turning the bottle over and over in his hands, small white pills rattling softly, visible through the filmy orange plastic._ _

__“Yeah,” Dean repeats, a little hastily this time. Fortunately, Sam doesn’t seem to want to say it anymore than Dean wants to hear it, and he doesn’t finish his sentence. The room’s quiet aside from the slight hitch in Sam’s breathing and the soft _tap tap tap_ of the medicine bottle. _ _

__Dean reaches out and rubs his thumb over Sam’s knuckles, stilling his movement. Sam’s hands go slack as he lets Dean take the bottle and tuck it into the inner pocket of his leather jacket._ _

__“I can’t remember everything, just – bits and pieces.” Sam hunches over, rests his elbows on his knees. He’s staring down at his now-empty hands like he doesn’t recognize them._ _

__“Well stop trying,” Dean says harshly. “You gotta leave it alone, if you start digging at that wall and it comes crumbling down we don’t know what’ll happen to you. Forget it.”_ _

__“I’m so sorry,” Sam says. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I don’t know how you can even look at me.”_ _

__Dean snorts. Sam’s the one who can’t look at him. But he keeps that thought to himself, the defeated line of Sam’s shoulders ringing little alarm bells in his brain, _do-something-fix-it_. Dean touches Sam’s bowed head, runs his hand down the back of his neck and over his shoulders. He pulls him into a strange half-hug, Sam’s head resting against Dean’s stomach. Sam leans in, hides his face in the soft fabric of Dean’s t-shirt. _ _

__“I’m sorry,” Sam mumbles into Dean’s t-shit. “You shouldn’t be the one trying to make me feel better, not after what I did.”_ _

__Dean snorts again with genuine humor, lacking the edge of bitterness this time. “Shut it, Sammy,” he says, squeezes Sam’s shoulder a little harder. “Stop arguing with me, I’m always right. It wasn’t you, you don’t need to apologize. You were in the cage. He was just a shell.”_ _

__“Okay,” Sam says. Dean knows it’s not over, not really. Sam has decided to shoulder the responsibility and the guilt, decided he’s responsible for actions he can’t even fully remember, and he won’t be willing to drop it that easily._ _

__Sam takes a shaky breath in and sits up, rubs his hand over his wet face. “The other stuff we did,” he says slowly, “I can’t remember if I – if he – drugged you those times too.” Dean makes a noise to interrupt but Sam barrels on, determined to get to his point. “I don’t know if you wanted to… or well, if it was forced or not.”_ _

__Dean sits down on the bed next to Sam, stares up at the water-stained ceiling and wishes they weren’t having this conversation. There’s paint flaking off in places, revealing the many layers of stained yellow paint beneath, and a suspicious dark stain spreading out from the top corner of the room._ _

__Sam’s quiet, waiting patiently as the moment stretches. Dean knows he doesn’t have to answer, that Sam won’t push him anymore. But he won’t stop thinking about it, poking at buried memories better left alone, potential consequences be damned. And then the wall will fall, inevitably, and whose fault will that be?_ _

__“It wasn’t, those other times,” Dean says eventually. “You didn’t drug me or anything.”_ _

__“Okay,” Sam says. He sounds uncertain. “I hurt you, though.”_ _

__“Yeah, well.” Dean shrugs. He breathes in slowly, concentrating, and can practically taste the damp smell of mold on his tongue. They should have checked into the motel across the street, Dean thinks vaguely. The 20 bucks they saved probably isn’t worth inhaling black mold or asbestos or whatever is making this room smell like musty compost._ _

__“You didn’t deserve any of it,” Sam says. His thumb traces a gentle circle on the thin skin of Dean’s inner wrist. He’s finally looking at Dean, ancient eyes a stark contrast to the smooth lines of his young face. He pulls Dean closer, rests his head on Dean’s shoulder the way he used to when he was a little kid. “You didn’t deserve any of it, Dean,” he repeats._ _

__“Who said I did?” Dean snaps, annoyed. He knows what Sam’s really saying, isn’t too stupid to read between the lines. _Why’d you let me hurt you?_. But Dean doesn’t know how to explain it to Sam, how he’d thought Sam had been tainted by hell, come back a little twisted and a little more fucked up. And everything was all fucked up anyways, _they_ were all fucked up, so who cared? _ _

__Sam shrugs, jostling Dean with the movement. “I’m just saying,” he says. “And you know I love you, Dean. I just hope you know that.”_ _

__“ _God,_ just shut up already,” Dean says in exasperation. “Can we get to work already? The coffee’s getting cold.” But he doesn’t move, just sits there and lets Sam lean up against him, feels Sam’s crooked smile against his shoulder._ _

**Author's Note:**

> That's it! ngl I struggled with this because like... nothing happens? But I wanted Sam & Dean to debrief at least a little bit over what happened, so here it is lol.


End file.
